


dust (and other abandoned things)

by 0shadow_panther0



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: The professor has her blade levelled at Miklan’s throat, the man doubled over as he clutches the bleeding stump of his right arm, and Sylvain chokes out, “Wait—”He’s not sure how she hears him over the din of the fighting and the distance between them, but she does, and she stops, her sword not even an inch from his brother’s neck, and Sylvain—Sylvain isn’t quite sure what to do with himself.Miklan lives. It doesn’t change much.For Sylvain, it changes everything.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Miklan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 232





	dust (and other abandoned things)

**Author's Note:**

> finally caved and wrote a sylvain fic, with a sprinkle of sylvix for flavor

“He’s awake,” Byleth tells him.

Sylvain looks up from the blade he’s sharpening. “Really?” he says mildly.

She nods. “Marianne is seeing to him now.”

He huffs. The Golden Deer sure are something, he muses. The Lions, sticks that they are, never would have even considered a scheme as harebrained as this—hiding away the half-dead, disgraced first son of the Gautier family in a tent in the forest, right under the archbishop’s nose.

“...Will you go see him?” Byleth asks, soft.

Sylvain grins ruefully, not looking her in the eye. “Maybe,” he says. “I don’t really trust myself not to undo all of Marianne’s hard work as soon as I see him.”

The professor sighs, easing herself to the ground beside him.

“What he did to you was terrible,” she says.

He looks up at her, slightly bemused.

She catches the glance and raises a brow. “What the crest system did—what your family did—that was also terrible. The two are not exclusive.” She leans back, staring at the dappled streams of light that filter through the leaves. “Forgiveness is not a right. If you never make peace with him, that is your choice.”

He stares at the blade in his hands. “Right,” he says. “It is.”

* * *

“I’m leaving a small group of my father’s mercenaries to watch him,” Byleth says. “We’ve spent enough time away. The church will get suspicious.”

He doesn’t have any particular desire to talk to Miklan, but the idea of going back to the monastery without so much as seeing his brother sits the wrong way, so with the prospect of leaving so soon, he swallows the lump in his throat and ducks through the tent’s flap.

Miklan is sitting on a worn bedroll, nursing the blackened stump of his arm. Stripped of his armor, lamed and weak, he’s a far cry from the bandit they faced in the tower—from the brother that had left him in a well, all those years ago.

His eyes are the same, though—that familiar brown, cold like deadened wood.

“Here to gloat?” Miklan grits out, teeth bared. The flickering light from the lantern casts warped shadows across his face, twisting over the ragged scar.

“The opposite, actually,” Sylvain says, conversational and easy and entirely false to his own ears. “I wanted to check on you before we left, see if you want anything.”

Miklan barks a sharp laugh. “What I want,” he says caustically, “is to drag your corpse and drop it in front of the snivelling weevil you call Father.”

“I’ll take that into consideration. Anything else? Wine, perhaps?”

His brother’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Just leave. I don’t have time for your games.”

“It seems to me you have nothing but time, now,” Sylvain replies lightly, and takes a streak of vindictive satisfaction when Miklan’s growl cuts off into a pained groan.

He clenches at the swath of bandages, doubled over as his breath hisses through his teeth. “Leave,” he snarls again, going pale.

Sylvain acquiesces with a mocking bow, turning to let his brother wallow in misery, but pauses, glancing back.

“I haven’t forgiven you, you know,” he says, Byleth’s voice echoing in his head. The smile he’s wearing feels stiff and lifeless. “For everything that you did to me.”

Miklan looks up, and Sylvain notices, for the first time, the shadows marring his eyes. “Good,” he says. “Neither have I.”

Sylvain grits his teeth and leaves.

* * *

He remembers a wisp from what feels like a lifetime ago, when they were all little more than children. The Margrave Gautier had considered marrying Miklan off to another house, since he was all but useless as an heir, and Ingrid had been one such option. It fell through, of course, when Rodrigue offered Glenn to the Galatea’s, but Sylvain knew that Miklan’s pride had been battered.

Not by the rejection—there was no more love lost between Ingrid and Miklan than there was between the brothers—but the fact that their parents were willing to marry him off like a pawn.

He’s surprised to see Ingrid waiting for him at the gates to the monastery, brow furrowed with worry. Ever since his transfer to the Golden Deer, he’s spent scant time with his childhood friends, Felix’s growing animosity towards Dimitri had been reaching unbearable heights.

“Sylvain,” she says, and he dismounts from his horse in a fluid motion, landing lightly on his feet with an easy grin.

“Miss me that much?” he teases, but Ingrid’s expression doesn’t change.

“Miklan,” she starts, then hesitates. “Is he…?”

 _Noone can know_ , Byleth had warned him.

“Sure is,” Sylvain says. “Watched the professor do it myself.”

That much is true, at least. He’d watched the lance glowed with sickly light, started to engulf Miklan’s arm with sludge, watched as her sword whipped through the air like lightning and severed his arm from his shoulder as cleanly as a cleaver through butter.

Ingrid shoves him, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Don’t treat this so lightly,” she bites out. “It’s not—it’s not a _joke_ , he was your _brother_ and you had to watch him die.”

“He was an ass,” he corrects, and then, inwardly, ‘ _And still is_.’

She smacks his arm and he laughs. “I’m fine, Ingrid,” he says. “Honestly, I’m more hurt that Felix didn’t come out to meet me.”

Her expression wavers, and she looks away.

“Felix and Dimitri… fought,” she says slowly. “During our assignment. They’re both—” She swallows. “They’re both in the infirmary, still.”

He blinks, processing. “They—they _fought_?” Then, “The _infirmary_? What did they do to each other?”

“You know how they get,” Ingrid says. “This time was just… worse. Dedue and I managed to break them apart, but…”

“I’ll… go see them,” he finally manages. “Once we report back—”

“You can go now,” Byleth says, appearing out of thin air, and Sylvain restrains an undignified yelp. “I’ll report to Rhea myself.”

He blinks, then nods. “I—thank you, Professor,” he says, bowing, and then turns to hurry away.

* * *

He catches Manuela at the stairs, looking harried and exhausted.

“Oh, Sylvain,” she says, rather unenthusiastically. “Are you here to visit your friends?”

“Yeah, I am—how are they?”

She sighs, bringing a hand to her temple. “Not the worst I’ve treated,” she says, “but certainly not what I’d expect classmates to do to each other.” She waves him off. “They’re suited for visitors, though, so don’t let me keep you. Dedue is with Dimitri already.”

On any other day, he might have winked and parted with an invitation for tea, but he barely manages a smile before he’s half-jogging through the halls.

A brief glance into Manuela’s office reveals that Dedue is indeed attending to Dimitri, engaging him in quiet conversation. It’s a moment Sylvain doesn’t want to interrupt, so he moves to the next room to find Felix, sitting up in his cot and staring sullenly out the window.

His arrival makes his former classmate look up, surprise flitting over his features. Another pang of guilt lurches through his stomach.

“Heard you did a number on His Highness,” Sylvain greets wryly, pulling a chair close. “Really can’t leave you guys alone, huh?”

Felix scowls. “Nothing the boar didn’t deserve.”

Sylvain ‘tsk’s’ disapprovingly. “At least consider the work you’re piling onto poor Manuela.”

There’s no reply, and Sylvain’s expression softens. “...Felix, what happened?” he asks gently.

There’s another stretch of silence, and Sylvain sighs, shifting to leaves, and Felix finally says, “It was Glenn’s birthday.”

Sylvain freezes.

“He tried to—talk to me. Apologize. I couldn’t stand looking at him.” His head falls back against the wall, eyes turned to the ceiling. “He didn’t fight back, at first, but…”

Neither of them say anymore, but when Sylvain finally leaves, he squeezes Felix’s hand.

* * *

Two days later, he slinks out of the monastery in the dead of the night, picks his way through the forest until he finds the makeshift camp where they stashed his brother.

He nods to the sentries and beelines to Miklan’s tent, who wakes with jerk as Sylvain enters.

“What do you want,” Miklan grumbles.

“What do you remember about the Tragedy?” Sylvain asks without preamble.

Miklan blinks up at him blearily. “Wasn’t involved in it,” he grunts, slurred with sleep. “Made the Kingdom easy enough picking for bandits, at least.”

Sylvain exhales sharply. “Should have figured,” he mutters. “Right. Whatever. Go back to sleep—“

“This about Fraldarius?”

He freezes. “What makes you say that?”

“Those brats were always hanging off you—the fiance and the brother. Can’t imagine you’d care about anything else.”

Sylvain tenses. Miklan may be a bastard, but he’s not a fool.

“The girl’s the Galatea, right? It’s probably better for her that Fraldarius died,” Miklan comments, caustic, cruel. “Would’ve fallen out of favor with you real quick. She would’ve reduced to one of those women you hate so much, living for nothing but producing the next precious heir like some sort of—“

“Don’t you _dare_ talk about Ingrid,” Sylvain grits, and recognizes his mistake immediately as his brother’s face splits into a vicious grin.

“Why not? Isn’t she exactly what you loathe, just waiting for an opportunity to bear a little crest-child—“

”Miklan,” he warns sharply, but the other man barrels on, unheeding.

“Not like she’d be using any of her wits if she had them, not with her _esteemed_ lineage. I bet once the Fraldarius fell through, they tried to shaft her onto you, double their chances of her bearing someone _useful_ to the line—”

He’s not thinking when he brings a hand to grip Miklan’s shoulder with bruising strength, just inches about the severed limb, but it has the effect he wants—Miklan shuts up, flinching back with a shuddering hiss through his teeth.

Sylvain wrenches his hand back just as quickly, though, like he’d been burned. He’s not entirely sure why, but he tamps down on his unease to unpack later (preferably never) and says, “I told you.”

Miklan barks out a sharp laugh. “If you don’t want to hear it, then _leave_!” he spits back.

Sylvain almost does—almost throws a punch directly at Miklan’s awful, scarred face.

He doesn’t, though. He takes a deep breath instead, bites the inside of his cheek until the urge recedes.

“I guess I know why you left,” Sylvain says dryly, finally. “I think you’re mocking her because that was almost _you_.”

Miklan bristles.

“Are you cold?” Sylvain says suddenly, before he can muster a retort. “Seems a bit drafty in here.”

There’s a beat, confusion and surprise flicker over his brother’s face at the abrupt non sequitur before it melts back into a glare. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. I’ll bring an extra blanket next time.”

Next time. Like he’s planning on making this a regular venture, visiting his criminal brother in the cover of the night.

Miklan scowls, but at least he doesn’t fling anymore insults as Sylvain leaves.

* * *

A week comes and goes. Sylvain takes an evening to slip out of the monastery again, with the promised blanket and a full jug of wine for the mercenaries to thank them for their work.

He gets plenty of thanks for the drink and none for the blanket—not that he’d expected anything different.

He’s cleaning the stables, Byleth watching with a critical eye—punishment for an ill-timed comment during lecture—when a man stumbles up to them.

“Commander—!”

Byleth blinks. Sylvain recognizes the man as one of Jeralt’s mercenaries—one that was supposed to guarding Miklan.

The conversation is rushed, too quiet for him to catch, but the furrow of his professor’s brow isn’t reassuring in the slightest.

When she dismisses the man, she turns to him, expression grim.

“We need to go,” she tells him, voice low. “Something’s happened with your brother.”

“Did he get loose?” he asks, but Byleth shakes her head.

“Now,” she murmurs, and turns to stride to the stables.

* * *

The camp that had held his brother is, in a word, decimated. Craters litter the ground, mercenaries scattered and tending to their wounds. He recognizes the purple-black burns and the sickly smell of rot from Lysithea’s grueling training sessions—dark magic.

“Any casualties?” Byleth asks as soon as they arrive, reining in her horse.

“Not on our end,” one of the mercenaries replies. “We didn’t get any of the attackers, either. Once they got what they wanted, they just… disappeared.”

“And what did they want?” Sylvain interrupts.

The mercenary hesitates, glancing between Byleth and Sylvain.

“They… killed Miklan,” they say slowly. “Killed him and left.”

The professor is staring at him, silent, assessing, and Sylvain—

Sylvain just feels empty.

“I see,” he says. Then, politely, “May I see the body?”

“Sylvain,” Byleth says quietly, and he smiles. It feels flat.

“It’s fine, Professor,” he says airily. “I just want to say my final goodbyes and whatnot.”

There’s a beat, then she nods to the mercenary, who gestures to the tent. “We… moved him back.”

Ducking into the tent, Sylvain half expects his brother to be sitting on the ground, glaring up at him, but—

A corpse stares back, eyes glassy and wide, blackened burns twisting up its throat.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, staring down at the body, not moving until Byleth follows him in and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“We have to leave,” she says softly.

He swallows thickly. “Right,” he rasps. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t ask what they’ll do with the body, but he knows Miklan won’t get a funeral. It’s one thing to be a disgraced noble, but another to be proof of treason against the church.

They ride back to the monastery in silence, the sky dark, and Byleth takes their horses at the gate.

“Get some rest,” she tells him lowly. “We can talk about it later.”

He nods mutely, walks to the dorms on muscle-memory alone. His hand is on the doorknob to his dorm when he pauses, walks two rooms down and knocks.

It takes a moment for the door to crack open, familiar amber eyes peering through.

“Can I come in?”

Felix squints at him blearily, then opens the door a little wider. Sylvain squeezes through the gap and Felix kicks it shut before shuffling the scant feet back to the bed and taking a seat.

He wraps his arms around Felix, who makes a half-startled, half-irritated noise, and Sylvain leans into him until they’re both lying on the cramped bed.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Sorry. Can I—just for tonight, can I stay?”

Felix is quiet for a gut-wrenching moment. “If you drool on me, I’ll kill you,” he says finally, and Sylvain only barely stifles his sigh of relief.

“No promises.”

Felix growls and shoves him, and Sylvain rolls off obligingly, although it leaves Felix squished between him and the wall—the bed is decidedly not made for an additional body, and especially not one of Sylvain’s size.

They lie there for awhile in silence, Felix’s breathing so slow and steady that Sylvain thinks he might have fallen asleep again.

“What happened?”

Sylvain closes his eyes. Miklan’s lifeless eyes stare back. “Nothing.” he says. “Nothing, I just…” He pauses, shifting, and Felix makes a disgruntled noise as he gets pressed against the wall even further.

“Go to sleep, then,” he grumbles. “I have class in the morning.”

Sylvain lets out a huff of laughter, turns his head to catch the silhouette of Felix’s profile. “Right,” he says, quietly. Then, “Felix?”

He hums lowly, half-asleep.

“Thank you.”


End file.
